Carousel
by celadon
Summary: Written for the July challenge on the LJ Don/hurt page: Who:Don/Where:park/What:fireworks. Rated for some language my mom would never have approved of. Just like she wouldn't have approved of me ending that sentence with a preposition. Vaya con Dios, Mom.
1. Chapter 1

_I started writing this in honor of Rinne's birthday for the first challenge of the Don/Hurt list on LJ (Don/park/fireworks). Then my Mom died suddenly and unexpectedly this month, so once again, everything I am working on is running late. All will be rectified in time. Barring fire, flood and pestilence, which I half-expect at this point anyway._

_This is just a little story. It focuses on Nikki and Don, because I've never taken Nikki out for a spin and I like her. Other than that, it's fairly light of plot, written just for fun and to keep the wheels greased, in a kind of short burst, serial drama format. I also experimented with writing completely in present tense as an exercise and to keep the tension. It's surprisingly hard, so it may be a little rough in spots._

_**Prologue**_

"BOSS!"

She's yelling before she can stop herself, knowing it's futile, knowing it's lethal, because even in the star-pricked darkness, that is not helping, not helping at all, giving her position away. But she can't help it – she's frozen with fear, neck stretched taut to see, a sitting duck to anyone who can pick her out of the shadows. Don would be furious with her. Would be. But Don is inscribing a graceful arc in the air, the hollow metallic boom of the blow still echoing around them over the eerie, cheerful music of the recorded calliope, the seats of the amusement park ride a blur as they twirl faster and faster, higher and higher.

She opens her mouth to call out again, eyes wide to try and track his trajectory in the darkness, but something rings sharply off the steel wall of the ticket booth just above her head and she crouches instinctively deeper into the shadows instead. She needs to move. She needs to find Sinclair and Granger and better cover - this being divided is leaving them vulnerable. She needs to find help for Don, even though she knows no one could have survived such a blow, certainly not coupled with the flight and fall…she presses the heels of her hands against her forehead, willing herself to focus, asking herself what Don would tell her to do.

He would tell her to save her own ass, to abandon useless battles for ones she might actually win. He would yell it, actually, lecture, remind her that there were dangerous felons at large and that her first responsibility was to subdue them, to protect the public whose safety they were sworn to guard. He would point out that he knew the risks of his job - accepted the potential outcomes. And he would be one hundred percent correct.

She's nodding internal agreement even as she plots a course ahead, runs in a crouch to the next available cover, thighs roaring with strain; mentally calculating the most likely area where Don would have landed and the best way to look for him, here in the darkened, shadowy fairgrounds surrounded by who-knew-how-many perps.

Because she also knows - head knows and gut knows - with absolute certainty, that, for all that Don would say, he would never - _never_ - the hell walk away and leave her behind.

Ever.

_Don't do like me. Be better than me._ She can hear his voice in her head as she scans the darkness for the perpetrators, gauging the best course to her next scrap of cover.

Well, screw that, boss, she answers the voice in her head silently. Because being like you is just dandy with me.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for the kind feedback. I guess I should have been clearer, Patty - I didn't mean it was light-hearted, because it isn't. I meant it was rather slight as to plot._

_**One**_

She huddles, still and silent - listening. She hears nothing buried under the wail of the calliope, the rustle of the almost invisible seats spinning and dipping, stiffly horizontal with centrifugal force. Her hand hovers over her mic, toying with the idea of risking contact with Sinclair and Granger, then drops. She isn't quite ready to risk it, not without knowing where Don is and whether or not someone - someone who is not a Special Agent, that is - has discovered him first. Besides, let's face it, it's the first question Sinclair and Granger will ask her, and 'beats me' is not an answer likely to impress. Oh, no one will blame her, exactly, but she's not in the mood to be the rookie screw up this week. That's what she tells herself anyway as she uncoils, readying for her next move. She can't sense any movement, but what if these guys have infrared scopes? She has no doubt they have brains, because turning on that ride was a pretty smooth move. And it also makes it clear that they know this place better than she does. She runs nearly doubled over, doubles back at a zigzag almost immediately, stalking shadows.

Hold on, Boss, she thinks silently. I'm coming. At least, I hope I am.

The black-on-black shadow of the twirling cup ride looks like a good place to catch her breath and reconnoiter, and she poises herself there, next to its hulking bulk, eyes trying to pierce the landscape. Don is wiry, and he literally flew, but he still couldn't have gone that far. She needs to swing around the kiddie roller coaster and check over there, or get closer to the flying seats – see if he could have rolled underneath somehow.

There is an ominous creaking noise right next to her, like a metal beast lumbering to life, and she is moving again before she even consciously records the cup-seats beginning a slo-mo twirl. Her lungs squeeze flat against her clavicle, leaving her airless, but she runs anyway.

_Can they SEE me then? Or was that random? And where the hell are Sinclair and Granger anyway, taking a spin on the goddam Ferris wheel? _

She ducks into the curve of the kiddie roller coaster track, lets her head hang, hands on knees, panting open-mouthed but as silently as she can manage. _Okay. Okay. You're doing good. _Part of her brain is praying for a friendly crackle from the radio, part of it is terrified that it will actually happen and give away her position.

_On the other hand_…she pauses, newly aware of the whoosh of the twirling cups. On the other hand, these rides coming to life isn't all bad, if she's careful. They're loud. They move. They could be a kind of cover. In fact…she shifts herself just slightly out of the sheltering protection of the roller coaster track. _Nothing._ So either this ride is run from an individual switch, or they can't see her, or…they're trying to keep her off balance. And doing a fine job of it. No gunfire, though. Not conclusive, but worth noting.

She stays underneath the track, just in case, at least for as far as she can manage, until it slopes too close to the ground to allow her passage. She hides herself among the support struts then, looking, for gunmen or, more importantly, for Don. Why the heck don't these guys make a run for it, anyway, while they have the chance? Unless Sinclair and Granger have them pinned down somehow?

_Still_ no gunfire. Maybe they _have_ given up and gone home. She's loathe to see them get away, but finding Don, dead or alive, feels more pressing. She's half-tempted to test the quiet, but pauses guiltily. Going off half-cocked is something Don is always trying to cure her of, so right now resisting the urge seems like the least she can do for him.

_See, Boss? You'd be real impressed. So you just damn well better be alive, cause I'm not wastin' all this self-control for nothin'._

Vision suddenly compromised, she blinks hard, glaring into the darkness. _And none of that stupid girl stuff, neither. No time for that. Sinclair and Granger catch you like this, they'll just laugh their asses off. Okay, maybe not Sinclair - I got a hunch he watches chick flicks with a box of tissues handy, but I ain't ready to test that theory either._

She blinks harder, glare deepening ferociously. She is focusing on getting herself under control and it takes her a minute to register what she is looking at through the criss-cross of the roller coaster struts. _What the heck is that? Some kind of sign, or…? _Her heart picks up pace, beating noisily in her ears.

_Letters. _Pressed low against the struts. No "F", but that is a "B", and at least part of an "I"…

She is crawling forward on her hands and knees before the thought even has a chance to finish, hands reaching through the struts, fingertips brushing the unmistakable fabric of a tactical vest. She stretches further, tries to touch the skin of his neck to feel for a pulse. Her fingers fall just short.

"_Boss_…" she hisses, as loudly as she dares. "Don. It's Nikki. Can you hear me?"

Silence. She can't tell a thing from this side, in the dark. Breathing? Not? She needs to get to the other side so she can see his face, see how he's hurt, tell if he's breathing, if his heart is beating…her vision blurs again, she feels the dampness slide down her face and off her chin, but she doesn't care any more. _Screw Sinclair and Granger anyway. _

She is crawling still, mindless of the fact that she can conceivably stand, finds the closest section of track to soar back upward and pulls herself through. She tells herself that she needs to be more cautious, to wait, to listen for gunfire, smiles when she realizes that that is really Don's voice in her head, lecturing her. _So you just hang in there, Boss, cause I wanna hear that lecture with my ears. I ain't carrying you around in my head for the rest of my life like some whack guardian-nag angel. _

Still on her knees, she hugs the side of the track, fingers tracing the struts as a guide. Ahead, she can just make out the light color of the textured soles of a pair of combat shoes. As soon as she can reach, she grasps one, fingers curling around the toe. She barely swallows a sob as the shoe shifts under her hand, drags herself forward until she can rest a comforting palm on the hip not pressed into the dusty ground.

"Hey. Hey, it's me. You okay?"

More silence.

She's out in the open now, so despite her impatience, she forces herself to move carefully, stealthily. _How's that, huh? Can't wait to tell you about it._

She's pulled herself around now, until she's on the other side, near his head, so that they can both keep tight against the struts. It's poor cover, but it's better than nothing.

"Hey…" a tiny bit louder. She can get a shadowy glimpse of his face now. To her surprise, a faint glimmer of light shows her that his eyes are open. "Hey. Boss. Don. Can you hear me?"

His eyes blink, and she sees his brow furrow. She lays a hand on one side of his face, grimaces at the sticky wetness that instantly coats her palm. Swearing softly, she sees the light glance wetly off of his hair, realizes that dark spots she assumed were shadows are glimmering streaks across his forehead, masking one ear. Matching streaks on the struts reflect what little light there is.

She draws a deep breath. "Wow. But you're alive. Guess all that jive about your thick skull wasn't joking, huh? How you feelin'?"

He blinks again, sucks in a shallow breath.

Keeping her voice low, she tries again. "Come on, Boss - you're scarin' me here. Talk to me."

He fixes his eyes on hers, wide and unfocused, swallows.

"Sorry." Barely a hiss of a whisper.

She smiles.

"…but I was wearing my batter's helmet. Honest, Mom."

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Well, I'd hoped to have this posted before I went away, but clearly no such luck. Hopefully my life will settle down now and I can post the rest on schedule. Oh – in response to comments – they're all short chapters, and mostly cliff hangers. I'm not messing with you, it's just a style choice._

_**Two**_

_He's kidding, right? He's got to be kidding. _But even as she thinks it, her stomach tells her he's not. Don likes to joke, but at the office, on stakeout - never under fire. She can hear him again in her head any time the rest of them indulged…_C'mon, people…focus…_

She screws her eyes shut, opens them almost immediately. No time for that, she scolds herself. _Shoot. What now? And what the heck has that knock to the head done…? _She leans in close and tries again.

"Boss. It's Nikki. And we're not in a real good situation here."

He blinks at her again, presses his eyes closed. "Did I get him out, anyway? Did we win?" His voice is oddly plaintive.

_Crap. _"No, we got a ways to go for that…" she breathes, half to herself. She had been thinking to stow him someplace safe and reconnoiter with the others - he has a gun, after all, and a radio. But that's no good, not if he's this confused. He'll be completely defenseless, could wander into the line of fire at any time. Maybe this would be a good time to risk contacting Sinclair and Granger. Misery loving company and all.

She moves her hand where it rests on the side of his face, strokes soothingly. Wetness rolls over her palm, slickening her fingers, and her chest clenches. She should at least try to slow down the bleeding. He might be alive now, but he could bleed to death while she sits here on her rear end, trying to decide what to do. _Come on, Betancourt…focus_.

She doesn't have a rag, anything, so she pushes her palm against his scalp, hoping to slow down the bleeding. He gives a sharp little grunt of pain, but doesn't fight her.

"Pretty."

She is glancing around for their best source a cover, somewhere they can really hunker down, and barely listening. "How's that?"

"The fireworks."

His voice is matter-of-fact and she shivers, tries to track his gaze, which seems to be focused straight ahead on something only he can see.

_Man, that was some hit to the head, Boss. _"Yeah. Nice." Absently. The Tunnel of Love might work - it's enclosed, and not too far away. If she's lucky, she can use the radio inside. _Because, after all, we've been so lucky so far. _

"You up for a little run?"

"I'm a good runner."

He sounds proud, and her heart twists within her. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm gonna help you up…"

She slides her hands under his back, beneath his arms, to shift him into sitting position. His shout of pain startles them both, is immediately answered by a sharp rat-a-tat of gunfire, seemingly from every direction at once. Sparks fly from the struts right over her head, on both sides, and she bends low over him, offering what protection she can. Speaking of fireworks, she thinks grimly. _Dumb-ass move, Betancourt. What are you thinkin' about? You know to check if he's hurt somewhere else. And after that unscheduled flight he took, you can be pretty damn sure he is. _

She feels him shift under her, glances down, wondering if she is hurting him, almost smiles when she sees the familiar, instinctive gesture, realizes that he is trying to go for his gun. A warm bloom spreads through her stomach. _Well, at least you're still in there somewhere._

Her eyes track the distance to the Tunnel of Love. Some fairly definite cover there - maybe she can even look him over a little, if they can get out of the line of fire - see how he is, patch some things up. As long as nobody's waiting for them in there. Another volley of shots and she ducks lower, pops up just long enough to return fire. It's risky, but they sure as hell can't stay here. She doesn't really think Don is up to running, but she'll drag him if she has to. _Yeah, right, Nikki. And other delusions of grandeur. _

She leans in close. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Besides here?" She rests a hand on his forehead.

He frowns faintly, then starts to shake his head, stops almost immediately with a strangled gasp. His lids flicker and pinch closed.

She clicks her tongue impatiently. "Man. Were you always like this? I know you're hurt someplace…" she tries to picture the moment in her head, the unexpected rise of the metal chair, coming around in a circle almost too fast to see, the sickening thud as it makes contact and Don, airborne…

…upper body somewhere, if it isn't his head, and she's pretty sure now that the head injury is a result of slamming into the roller coaster struts. _Slamming…of course, that alone could…shit. _She groans aloud, clips off three more shots in quick succession and ducks low again, runs a quick hand down his right arm. "How 'bout here?" There's no answer and she remembers the move for his gun, so she tries the same thing on his left arm, stops almost at once when he jerks involuntarily. She can tell something is wrong even without it - can feel things out of place, misshapen and dangling free, a tangle of torn cloth, damp in spots. _Hope your legs are in better shape, or this is gonna be one short run. _

A cursory inspection that no EMT would be impressed with seems to indicate that his legs are intact - or good enough for what she has in mind. Internal injuries are on their own, though - she hasn't the light or the time or the expertise to find out about those.

"How're you with flying blind?" she barely whispers, then, a little more loudly, "Think you can sit up if I help?"

What she can make out of his eyes looks confused and slightly unfocused, but he gives the smallest of nods.

"Okay - easy does it." Her mouth is right next to his ear now. "I'm gonna get you up and then we need to run, flat out, no thinkin', no lookin' back. Got it?"

His eyes fix on hers, almost focus. "Home run."

"Yeah. That's it. Home run. We're headin' for the plate. You with me?"

He breathes something that could be taken for assent and she tucks his left hand into one of the ammo pockets of his tactical vest to do duty as a sling and scoots underneath his back, wrapping her arm firmly around his waist. "On my three. Run and don't stop, no matter what."

"One." She mentally measures the distance to the Tunnel of Love. "Two." She has his right arm around her shoulders, grips the hand hard. "THREE!" She is up, chokingly aware that he is up too, a dead and dragging weight on her side, stumbling, but game.

Gunfire erupts around them, kicking up dirt, bouncing off the metal of the rides and booths in whining ricochets. She lays down some poorly-aimed fire of her own, randomly, not daring to let go of his hand. If he goes down now, she'll never get him up again.

The opening to the Tunnel of Love is right in front of them now, a black and empty maw. She twists just enough to drop him from her shoulder, then tackles him around the waist, driving them both into the narrow lip of boardwalk rimming the watery canal that bisects the Tunnel. Bullets chew the wood overhead, splinters flying. Then silence.

She lies still, sprawling over him, trying to distinguish his heartbeat from the frantic hammering of her own. After a minute she does, exhales a gasp of relief that he's still with her. "Sorry about the rough treatment," she murmurs. "You okay?"

His eyes are closed and his breathing shallow. He whispers something, and she leans in to hear.

"What?"

"Herding."

The word is barely audible, but the tone is more familiar and she tries to get a better look at his face in the bluish glow of the emergency strip lights. "Boss?"

His mouth moves, but no words. She feels his breathing change under her, grow still. His head drops to one side. In the weird blue light, his face is pale and cold as marble. It takes her another second to realize that she's lost his heartbeat.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: It occurred to me that I should stop trying to explain a style I was playing with because it is probably of little interest to anyone but me. So I'll just say thank you for reading along, and I hope you enjoy the next part._

_**Three**_

_God. Oh, God. _She's tearing at the Velcro holding the vest in place, then at the undershirt, heedlessly ripping it apart. Part of her brain knows that she should be scoping the place, or at the very least, keeping an eye on the entrance, watching for their friends, and while her gun is nearby, right at her knee, her hands are busy on his chest, feeling for some sign of life, poised to do compressions if necessary.

Her palm finds his sternum and she pauses, hardly breathing. _Come on, Boss - come on. Don't do this to me. Give me a little sign here_…her fingers detect a flutter, low and slow, and she really does hold her breath, just to be sure. Nope, that's really him - not just an echo of her pulse. She lets out something between a curse and a prayer on a sigh, then sets about tearing the rest of the tee shirt free, moving carefully to avoid jostling the misshapen left arm. _Sorry about the familiarity, but it's about all we got to work with, and if I don't take care of some of that bleeding your heart's gonna stop for real_.

The tee shirt is rags now, and she folds part of it into a soft pad and pushes it hard against the side of his head, holds it there. His head shifts slightly and his eyelids quirk but don't open. The pad is drenched almost immediately and she tosses it aside and reaches for another. _This is gonna have to do, because I'm running out of fabric and I still gotta stabilize that arm some._ She uses part of the tee shirt to tie the pad in place, then pauses to catch her breath, glancing first at one end of the tunnel, then towards the other. Everything looks still, but she holds herself quiet a moment longer, listening for any untoward sounds.

_Nothing._

She looks down at the hand unconsciously resting on the bandaged forehead and pats lightly. "Maybe our luck is finally taking a turn for the better," she whispers. "How you doin'? Okay? I'm gonna try to do somethin' about that arm." She wrestles him back into the vest, wincing in sympathy as she feels the skin of his bad arm, hot and taut with swelling. "You need a doctor. An' I'm gonna get you one, too, or ain't nobody gonna let me out alone with you any more."

Something buzzes in her ear and she pauses in tearing the remaining tee shirt into strips, listening hard. "Sinclair?" she barely whispers. "Granger? You out there? We got a problem here."

The words bounce off of the black shimmer of the canal water and she bites her lip. _Damn. Maybe not such a good place to hide after all. _The buzzing breaks into static and it's all she can do to stop herself from swearing.

"Sinclair." She raises her voice, just a little, and it echoes in the enclosed space. No answer but the hum of electronic white noise. This time she does swear.

A faint glint shows her that Don's eyes are open again, fixed on her quizzically. She tries to smile apologetically, wonders if he can see her face at all anyway - see anything - that is, anything except for the mystical fireworks.

"Looks like it's just you and me," she barely breathes, painfully conscious now of the way the water is carrying sound, of the suspicious quiet wrapping the fairgrounds around them.

"'Sokay." His voice is even fainter, and it's his ballplayer voice, not his SAC voice, and for some reason her eyes fill again.

That is NOT helping, Betancourt, she scolds herself. She feels an awkward pressure on her knee, looks down to see his good hand resting there. She swipes at her face, clutching for control. _Well, now I know a secret about you. You may play hard ass, but you were one sweet kid._

The hand tightens suddenly, bunching around the fabric of her trousers. She frowns. "You all right? Am I hurting you?" The grip becomes more urgent, and she realizes he's trying to pull himself up. "Look, I know you don't like to take things lying down but I don't think that's such a good idea." She's reaching to push at the Kevlar-coated chest, to keep him down, when she senses it too and grabs for her gun instead.

It's just the suggestion of a shadow - a deeper black on the black of the water. It curls around the edge of the entrance and she holds her fire and her breath - waiting. She feels Don shift under her hand and pushes down more insistently, belatedly hoping she's not putting pressure on anything damaged. Her finger twitches in the trigger guard, yearning to clip off a shot, but she bites her lip hard to stop herself. _Just what I need. Giving us away for some damn squirrel or something. Do squirrels even come out at night? Good question for Granger._

Nothing moves, but the silence doesn't feel empty. She holds her breath, tries to picture the area at her back. The other end of the Tunnel bends out of sight, but somebody could have worked their way up there by now - hell, somebody could have already been there, waiting, making their way toward them.

_Herding. _

It hits her suddenly what Don was trying to tell her and she barely suppresses a groan in time. _Of course. _The silence, the carefully directed gunfire…they were _trying_ to drive them in here. Worse…she remembers the sudden animation of the twirling cup ride, destroying her hiding place…worse, they may have even been pushing her to find Don, to make sure they were together, a trapped and compressed target. _Crap. Sinclair and Granger, wherever you are, stay out of sight or we're all toast. _

Don's hand tugs at her trouser leg again and she pats absently at his chest to comfort him, eyes still on the Tunnel mouth. _What the hell are they waiting for? An engraved invitation? Or…? _She glances briefly over her shoulder to where the water twists and disappears. …_Or for somebody else to join them…?_

Her heart crowds the back of her throat, choking her. Suddenly waiting doesn't seem like such a good idea. If they know their position anyway…

Her finger grabs at the trigger. It's like an explosion in the quiet. Bullets puncture the wood surround of the Tunnel, stitching the frame, and the dark glimpse of shadow flickers out of sight. She spins quickly, sees no movement at the bend behind them, brings her weapon around again just as a returning round of fire sounds, plowing into the water's surface so that it skips and jumps next to them.

A hand gun of some kind this time, not an automatic weapon, her brain registers. And either they can't see them clearly, or that's one lousy shot. Or…she winces at the thought…they're stalling. Distracting them. _Pay attention and don't assume the obvious. You're in the Majors now. _The memory of Don's lectures brings a tight-lipped smile and she glances down at him again, frowns when she realizes he's struggling to roll onto his side, to get up.

She leans right next to his ear and hisses, "Stay down, stay still! You're gonna kill yourself!"

He sinks back with a smothered gasp. The fabric of her pant leg fists and tightens, then relaxes abruptly as she feels his hand slide free.

Her frown deepens. Is he out? But she can still make out the glimmer of his eyes, just barely, so she swings back in the direction of the Tunnel mouth, gun lifted. There is a pause, a standoff on who is going to waste ammo first. She is acutely aware that hers is finite, even taking into account Don's gun and the extra rounds tucked in their vests.

Nape tingling at the unprotected space behind them she whirls again, then back at the Tunnel opening, waiting. She doesn't see even a hint of movement and she is mulling whether or not it would make sense to have Don train his gun on the area behind them, even from a supine position. There is a faint plash of water and she pivots again, aiming wildly.

_Nothing. _

Back at the Tunnel mouth.

_Nothing. _

She eases back into a crouch, expelling breath, reaches out to pat Don's good shoulder. Her hand touches plank.

Startled, she is suddenly aware of the absence of warmth near her knee, looks down, heart bounding. The water laps in faint ripples against the boardwalk.

The boardwalk is empty.

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: So many guesses…but poor Don's mind is a mystery even to him right now. Thanks for hanging in there with me._

_**Part Four**_

_Oh…my…Where…?_ She stares at the boardwalk, trying to make her mind work, gun hanging heavy in her hand. _How…?_

Her gaze fixes on the ripples, spreading and flattening.

_Oh, no. No, no, surely a full grown man should make a larger splash…a bigger ripple_…

…and while you're standing around having a physics debate about it, Nikki, that's an injured man who could be drowning! She drops into sitting position and rests her gun on the boardwalk, conscious of the need to be quiet, makes a face. She takes a breath and slides in, mouth twisting as the cold wet runs into her boots and weights her trousers. _Man. The only thing worse than having to go into funky water blind is going into it fully clothed_.

Her feet hit bottom. It's only chest high, turns out - probably a safety measure in case folks tumble in. She stares down into the depths, desperate to see, moving her arms around her under the surface, fighting the urge to splash around wildly and draw attention to their predicament. _Going out by bullet or a lung full of water - now there's a Hobson's choice. C'mon, Boss - come on…_

The water is murky and deeply shadowed, but deeper down she spots colored lights strung along the walls underwater, adding an eerie glow. She wants to call his name, but that would be disastrous, and who could hear that under water anyway? Especially if you're busy drowning…? What would he do - sink, then float? If the air left his lungs, would he hover near the bottom? And shouldn't there be air bubbles or something?

This is where one of those genius types, like Charlie or Larry or Amita, would come in handy. She pictures them all perched along the boardwalk with their laptops, spouting conflicting advice on bodies and water and mass and what-all, and wonders if maybe she's starting to lose it a little. She realizes she's shaking, from the wet cold or adrenaline or sheer terror, and wonders why the heck the FBI ever looked like a better bet than the LAPD anyhow. _Majors, my ass. Guess some of us are just better suited to sandlot ball. _

There's nothing for it - she's going to have to go under - see if she can see better - see anything. She fills her lungs and closes her eyes. And nearly chokes on a strangled scream when something cold and wet drops on her shoulder.

She whirls frantically, churning water before she can remind herself to be quiet, makes a grab for the gun still resting on the boardwalk. The weight tightens briefly, but that's all. She recognizes the feel of fingers now, tracks the fingers to a hand, the hand to a wrist, and then an arm, projecting from deep in the shadows under the boardwalk. She'd know that damned arm anywhere.

The boardwalk hovers just over her head from this vantage and she ducks under it after the arm, furious. There's an air pocket between the flooring and the water's surface - probably for ease in making repairs. Pressed against the far wall, water lapping at his chest, she can just make him out, the colored lights in the water below reflecting weirdly off his face.

"What the hell are you thinking?" she hisses fiercely through her teeth before she can stop herself. "You _tell_ me before you do something like that! I'm _responsible _for you!" The irony of the words is not lost on her.

He lets go of her and brings a finger to his lips to silence her. From what she can see, he's actually grinning. Very softly he whispers, "Steal home."

She has more yelling she'd like to do, a lot more, but this isn't the time or place. Instinctively, she glances overhead at the wooden planks. Back to silence, but that could change at any time.

He gestures toward where the water bends out of sight behind them.

Of course, that makes sense - the boardwalk would run the entire length of the Tunnel, and this would offer them a chance of getting by anyone at the other end. If anyone looked inside, it wouldn't take long to figure out where they'd gone, but it would take some time to place exactly how far they'd gotten. If they stay close to the wall and move carefully, it will keep telltale motion in the water to a minimum, especially in the dark. Not a bad plan.

_But, damn it, you should have told me._ She remembers the insistent hand on her knee and grimaces. _Okay – maybe you did try to tell me. And I just didn't get it. I'll pay more attention._ _Wish you'd figure out who and where you are exactly, though - it's like working with some damned tactical savant. _

He spreads one open palm against the wall and waits, and she realizes he's waiting for her to go first. She shakes her head to indicate that he should lead - not only because she wants to keep track of him, but because she's not quite sure how he's staying on his feet. The water helps, probably - relieving him of some of the weight of gravity - but it will also sap what strength he has in time, in his current state pushing him, even, to hypothermia. She turns her back on him and he could collapse and slide underwater before she notices. Yeah, that one would be fun to explain. _Sure, AD, I found SAC Eppes and all, but then I let him drown in the Tunnel of Love. Whoops. _

Okay, so they're on a time limit then, and not just because of the guys with the guns. She needs to get them out of here – someplace dry, where he can be still and she can try and contact help. He's leaning his good shoulder into the wall now, and she suspects it's not only to use the wall as a guide.

_I take back about you being a sweet kid - you're worse than trying to keep track of a roomful of four-year-olds. Bet your Mom had a head of grey hair by the time she was thirty. _She sighs silently and jerks her head to indicate they should get moving. _This being in charge is definitely not all it's cracked up to be._

She lets them make a little distance before she tries whispering again, just to reassure herself. "You'll tell me next time, right? If there's something I need to know?" She cringes at the way the nearby water amplifies her voice.

He frowns at her, puzzled, then nods. She smiles and pats his good shoulder, urging him on. The bare shoulder protruding from the tactical vest feels like ice. She scowls.

_How long is this damned tunnel anyway? And what the heck is the point of this dumb, antiquated Tunnel ride these days? Sure, it made some sense in the good old days, when folks couldn't even hold hands in public, but these days you can practically do the nasty right in the Midway without anybody thinkin' anything of it. No reason at all for this slow old bucket of nonsense. _

The water may be relieving gravity, but pushing against its resistance is tiring too and he stumbles more than once, sending her heart into her throat. She considers sliding under his arm to support him, but the boardwalk is too narrow to conceal them beyond single file. His steps are dragging now, shoulder so tight against the wall that it looks like its trying to push through the other side.

_Wish I had some way of knowing how far we have to go._

She's just about to suggest a pause to rest when the shoulder skims abruptly downward. She just manages to clamp her mouth on a cry, grabs for the back of his vest to stop his descent. He snatches for the smooth surface with his palm, hangs there for a moment. Then she can feel him stiffen, winces as his forehead drops to brace wearily against the wall and keep him upright. They hover that way, fighting for equilibrium.

She touches his back questioningly and the returning smile seems a little more forced and dim, but he straightens some and takes a dogged step. She doesn't have to see his face to know what it's costing him. But what choice do they have? She can't leave him here. _Wish I could shake the idea that I'm killing you by trying to rescue you._

He stops so abruptly that she almost plows into him; freezes, because she hears it too. She listens hard for a repeat, and there it is, a small sound, magnified by the water.

The faint creak of board overhead.

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Forgive me for taking so long to update (sorry, Patty) but real life has been relentless (another reason these chapters are short). There does seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel at last, but don't quote me. Anyway, for all of you who hung in there with me, thank you very much - I appreciate it more than I can say._

_**Five**_

How close? She's not quite sure – the sound distortion of the water isn't helping. She sees his right arm twitch again, then still, his face turned down to the water, something like surprise or confusion creasing his features. She can't help wondering if the synapses skipped and crossed a couple of wires, if the two Dons finally bumped on this present plane. He sinks back into the wall, slowly, hitching his injured side with a wince.

She glances at him to be sure he's upright, gun barrel lifted to try and track the faint movements above. Not enough light or space between the planks to help. Two creaks – louder, and in quick succession. _Still one guy? Probably? Past them, or not even near yet?_ She bites her lip and braces the gun with her other hand. _No way to tell, really._

She catches just the edge of movement out of the corner of her eye and glances back at Don again, wondering if he's in trouble. His good hand flickers, near his ear, then his nose – _what the heck…? Does something hurt, or…?_ The fingers tap his forehead now, clumsy, but urgent, then he slowly pushes his palm flat against the boards above.

_Head must be hurting. Well, hell, no wonder – the miracle is that he's even conscious, never mind upright. If that helps him keep his feet until I can get him vertical again…_ She releases the gun with her left hand, pats his chest in a way that she hopes is comforting, reassuring, jumps with a splash when his fingers curl unexpectedly around her wrist. The faint sounds above grow still.

They both wait, transfixed, painfully aware of how loud the splash sounded in the silence, then he guides her hand, palm up, to the boards above, pushing against the underside in imitation of his a few minutes ago.

_Oh! I get it!_ She gives him a grin of surprised admiration. _Pretty slick!_ She can feel the boards shift just barely, the minimal difference as the tips of her fingers sense a weight difference above. She glances at him, trying to indicate the proximity. His eyes are fixed on her. She can't be sure he really understands, but at least she knows he's conscious. The boards give a little more, against her fingers now, and her breath catches, the nose of the gun hovering just beneath the boardwalk. If she fires from this angle without a visual, what are the odds she'll just leave somebody wounded and mean? She glances at him again, for encouragement or guidance, she isn't sure which. His fingers flicker again, ear, nose, forehead; and she almost groans in recognition.

_**Oh. **__Well, damn. I don't know your baseball signals, friend - basketball is my game - but I get the feeling you're telling me to fire when ready, right?_ She nods as though she understands, and who knows, maybe she does.

The weight over her hand is more distinct now, certain and centered, and while she knows there's a good chance she'll give away their position just to shoot off a toe, she doesn't see that she has any choice, especially if his friend is closing in from the other side. It's just a matter of time before they're discovered and they'll be in a better position if they can avoid being squeezed between the two offenders. And the longer the wait, the less likely Don is still going to be on his feet, and she needs him on his feet, at least long enough to find some better cover. _And anyway, the best defense is a good offense, right? Hope that's not just a lotta macho jive. _

She glances his way again, sees that he is still watching her, intent and focused. _Wish I had some clue which one of you is in there right now and what you're seeing._ She checks the weight above with her palm, then pushes the mouth of the gun against a crack in the boards. Before she can think about it too long, she steadies her sweat-slick finger on the trigger and squeezes. The sound of the gunshot reverberates on the water, almost simultaneously there's a howl and a thud and the boards over their heads tremble. She fires again, this time in what she hopes is a more meaningful spot, mindful of her limited ammo, one hand fisting in Don's tactical vest.

"Go!" she hisses, pushing him along in front of her. "Move!"

He's trying. She can see how hard he's trying and it breaks her heart, makes her feel like Dr. Mengele, the way his hand fumbles along the wall, seeking strength and support, but it's the only way and she shoves on ruthlessly. She thinks she sees some liquid streak the wall from above, darker than the water, drip from between the planks, but there's no time to examine it - their position is clear now, and the sooner they change it, the better their chances of survival. A roar, terrifyingly close, an explosion of wood near their heads and the water leaps around them, not just once, but a staccato chain of eruptions. This guy might be down, but he's not out and whatever firepower he's carrying, it's better than hers. She keeps forcing their momentum, eyes on the boards above them, wondering at the value of trying another shot.

Don's vest yanks abruptly southward against her grip and her legs let go underneath her. The world disappears in a rush of water and darkness and her knees smack against concrete, but she holds on doggedly. If she loses her hold on him now, under water, it's over. She tries to get a better grab on him, feels her fingers scrape across the ammo pockets on the vest front and clings to them. Her boots skitter on the canal floor, fighting for purchase against the buoyancy, her lungs flat and tight. The water explodes again, but not so close this time.

She tries to re-settle her grasp. There's nothing to hold onto and he's hard to drag, bigger than she is and heavy with inertia. Her feet manage to plant and she pushes upward with all her might against the pull of the water, but she's lost all sense of placement and can only hope she's not bringing them up in full view of the gunman…or his friend. Her head breaks free of the surface and she sucks in air, trying to keep it silent, sliding a hand up the front of his vest until she finds his chin, hooking an elbow around his neck to keep it clear of the water. She can feel his head rest on her shoulder, heavy and still, drenched tendrils of hair brushing her neck. She blinks water out of her eyes, trying to look around.

They've drifted free of the boardwalk and she can see a dark shadow stretched along the wooden surface. It seems very still. She doesn't really trust it and she isn't taking time for niceties like pulse checking. Besides, they're still better off using the underside of the boardwalk for cover on the trip out of here. Especially until they can figure out where this guy's buddies are keeping themselves. But she sure would like that weapon - her own disappeared in their underwater dive.

She can make out a dark shape just forward of the figures reach and she eyes it speculatively. Could be playing possum, but it's worth the risk - if she's fast. Something damp tickles her neck and she shoots a look at Don, sees his lashes flicker.

"Stay down," she whispers, just barely a breath. She feels the head roll, then still. "Good. Good boy." Pulling him in a dead man's float is actually easier, though the moniker makes her wince inwardly. The gun is within reach, but if this guy is faking, it'll all be over real fast - no speedy exits submerged in water. She positions herself as far out of the shadow's reach as possible, then fumbles for the gun strap. She curls a hand around it and yanks. The heavy gun slides over the boards with a bumping noise, but the figure doesn't move and nothing misfires. She blows out a silent breath. _Okay, then. One down. Maybe. _She slings the strap over her neck to leave a hand free and ducks back under the boardwalk, her passenger in tow. _Not bad, boss. We do good work together, huh?_

A loud grinding noise interrupts her self congratulations. The noise settles into a mechanical hum and she grabs automatically for the gun, the movement almost sending Don under. It takes her a panicked heartbeat to realize that it's the belt that guides the boats along, suddenly come to life.

_Damn it - DAMN it! Do they know, or are they just trying to drive us out into the open…? _She pulls as deep under the boardwalk as she can manage. The belt is churning the water up enough to disguise any movements they might be making, so she dares to hurry. As much as somebody walking through chest-high water, dragging someone, can hurry, anyway, she thinks dryly.

_Guess they modernize even these old rides some. Hard to believe that once-upon-a-time these old boats used to bump through the canal under their own steam. _Thinking back, she remembers going through one once - it had included scare tactics - figures that popped out at strategic turns, probably intended to drive couples into a clinch. _Wonder if this one has any of those - I mean, aside from the gun-toting felons. And maybe you're getting a little hysterical again, Nikki. Well, no time for that now - save it for later. These things follow a circumscribed route, so somebody could be waiting patiently at the end, if they've figured out where we're headed._

She feels Don stir again, makes shushing noises and is gratified when he stills, his only movement a hand that wraps around her forearm and hangs on. Somehow, she finds it comforting. _We may come out of this okay yet. If only our not-so-on-the-spot cavalry can get their asses in gear and come to the rescue._

There is a distinctive noise underneath the motorized sounds, something familiar, getting louder, and her tired mind struggles to place it. She thinks back on her own Tunnel of Love ride, trying to gain context. _Let's see…boring ride in the dark…guy with restless hands…scary figures leaping out…and…oh, God!_

The rush of water, now recognizable, grows louder, and the memory of how these rides always end comes a split second too late as the concrete floor disappears beneath her feet. She feels Don's hand tear from its hold and scrabbles to secure her grasp on him, fingers clutching at his collar, but the force of the water is like a fist, slamming her downward. Her nails scratch at Kevlar and for a moment she thinks she has it, then her fists close on nothing.

Only water.

_TBC_

_Well, David and Colby actually are IN this story, I swear…_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Phew. Almost there. About two more parts, I think. And the next (final) part of __**Yizkor**__ should also be up soon - because I refuse to believe that anything else can go haywire in my life. Thank you for your patience, and to all who showed continued interest._

_**Six**_

It only lasts for a minute, the column of cold wet hammering her, the sensation of falling. She is submerged, smothered, then hitting bottom and bouncing back, springing to the surface, hair dripping, eyes burning, spitting water. She struggles to find her feet, teeters, then stands, scrubbing at her eyes. The pool is only about waist deep, built for maximum splash and minimum danger - probably fun, even - in a little boat.

Without one? Not so much.

Well, if their friends were expecting them to make an entrance via the boardwalk, they might have the element of surprise. Or not, given this subtle and quiet entrance. She pushes her way to the pool rim, still spitting water.

She sags against the rim, trying to gauge the width of the pool. It might not be deep, but it's still enough to drown a man who is incapacitated or unconscious. No point in subtle moves now - finding Don and fishing him out is her main purview. How long did it take to drown anyway? Minutes? Seconds? _Come on, Boss - we've survived this far. I am NOT letting you die now. _

She scans the surface for floating figures, wondering if it's possible to miss someone in the dark. The waterfall obscures her view of the other side of the pool so she wades carefully in that direction, clinging to the pool edge.

There is more light here - the building on the other side of the waterfall is lit, on the inside, not the outside. The sight of it halts her for a second. A trap? A trick? But if Don is underwater she can't afford caution - she has to press on. Still hovering at the pool edge for a hasty exit if necessary, she takes a second to glance around. Her purloined gun is still with her, courtesy of the strap over her shoulder, and she tips it downward to let water drain out of the barrel, then back up to position it for firing. She glances warily back at the waterfall out of the corner of her eye, stops. Could somebody get trapped under the fall of the water, held there by the pressure? Her heart bumps against her ribs. Where the heck is that genius crew when you need them? She doesn't know how to calculate this stuff!

She is wavering, not sure where to look first. It's bad enough trying to stay alive under these circumstances, unbelievably draining to have to be responsible for looking out for someone else - keeping them alive as well. She almost smiles, despite herself. _Okay, Boss, I get it - that's you all the time. I'll remember and try to make it a little easier on you._

The surface of the pool looks still and calm, except for the churning water around the waterfall and the faint skim of ripples following her movements. She isn't sure whether that frightens or relieves her. Light glimmers across the water's surface on the other side of the waterfall, a faint reflection from the nearby building interior. It creates a huddle of shadows, a fresh measure of contrast. She stops. There is a stain of blacker darkness and a flash of white - something like the size and shape she is looking for. She tightens her grip on her weapon and lifts the nose for reassurance, moves forward.

She can see more as she nears, that white splash is an arm hanging in the water, the larger black smudge is a trunk…it _is_ Don, half in and half out of the water, either exhausted or unconscious, judging from the lack of movement. Or - but she won't think about that, won't even entertain the idea.

His head rests on the asphalt surrounding the pool - she can tell that as she gets closer - the makeshift bandage lost in the tumble down the falls. She can't see whether or not the bleeding has started up again. Did he actually get himself there, or land there just by luck?

Luck, probably. Well, what the heck. They were due for a little luck by now. She suppresses the urge to run to him. Getting herself shot would only leave him alone and helpless. _Can't run worth crap in water anyway._ The urge to call his name, see if he moves, is even stronger. And maybe all this caution is for nothing anyway. If she has to duck for cover the only place to go is under water, and that's going to be a limited time engagement. Still…if they both get outta here alive, she wants to be able to tell him she tried to do it right – that what he was always hammering on wasn't a total lost cause. That she wasn't either.

The thin spill of white light bleaches his pale features to indistinctness as she moves closer, highlights a slash of jagged black cleaving his forehead. _But it's the light and shadow that makes him so colorless, right? Seriously, that's all, right? At least he landed face up. Let's just be grateful for small favors for now._

The bone-colored blur she identified as an arm bobs gently up and down with the undulation of the ripples from the falls. She shudders. Still no voluntary movement that she can see, but hey – it's dark. Even that little reflected light doesn't help much, though now she can make out the black strands clinging to his forehead in sodden curls. For a second, she thinks she sees his eyelids twitch, then decides she imagined it.

_Almost within reach. Just hold on, Boss._

Impatient now, she pushes away from the rim to cut diagonally across the remaining space. She thinks she can see him breathing - _thinks_ he is - it could be the movement from the falls.

Her hand stretches forward in anticipation and, unable to hold back any longer, she whispers, "_Boss_…"

The water erupts, drops fountaining upward, and she staggers back, startled, blinded, gun barrel rising automatically. Blinking water from her eyes she sees the limited light glimmer on drops in motion, faintly silver trails moving as though suspended in air, then, more clearly, dotting a chunk of animated darkness. The block of darkness sprouts arms, one oddly long and slender. The slender arm points downward, kisses Don's neck, nudges there.

"Drop your weapon." A sibilant hiss in the darkness.

The sound of a voice besides her own after so long is unnerving, but she keeps her own gun barrel lifted and aimed. "The hell I will. Step away from him." Her own voice shocks her with its deceptive steadiness.

The only answer is the click of a round dropping into the chamber.

The hands around her own weapon have developed a palsied shake, and she struggles to keep the barrel steady.

_Which is worse - I allow my boss to be killed because I'm following procedure, or I allow my boss to be killed because I'm not? _Don pushes the procedural envelope to the breaking point sometimes, but she doesn't think she has that kind of moxy yet.

_I don't want you to do anything like that. I want you to be better than me._ If only her teeth weren't chattering so hard, she might actually smile.

_Okay, Boss. I know what you'd want me to do._

She yearns to sneak a peek at him, for comfort or some sign of breathing, but she bites her lip until she feels it burst and bloody instead, eyes firmly fixed on the shadow with the long weapon pressed against her boss's throat. Its head is hooded, eyes black holes of emptiness. No hints of intent there. She keeps still, gun aimed at the unprotected hood: a killing shot. They stare at each other, unmoving.

"That's a federal agent you got there," she says at last. What the hell, she always yammers when she's nervous and nervous doesn't even begin to cover it about now. "And we're not alone. The best thing you can do for yourself is to lower the weapon and back away."

_Boss, I know you said not to lie - and that ISN'T a lie, though it's starting to feel like one, it's been so long since I caught a glimpse of the dynamic duo. Course, the ugly twist here is that HE'S not alone either, and I'd really like to be able to take my eyes off him long enough to glance around for his friends. Oh, don't fret - I won't. I know better than THAT._

"Come on - it's over. Lower your gun and back away."

_Okay, that one was a big ol' freakin' whopper, but I'm runnin' outta ideas here. Anytime you wanna pop up and offer some insight, I'm ready._

She keeps her gaze fixed on the eyeholes in the hood. Not that that helps any. Creepy, to tell the truth. She racks her brain for something more to say, another tact, mentally willing him to shift that gun muzzle, if only for an instant.

His shoulder drops forward and her finger tightens reflexively on the trigger. The bullet ejects with a whine like a mosquito on steroids, eerie in the night air, and she doesn't have to look to know it's gone wild. Part of her brain registers, with some surprise, that there is no answering whine, but she is mostly busy trying to set up her next shot, the gun muzzle swinging to follow his movements. Her body figures out what he is doing before her brain can catch up, and her forefinger shifts instinctively to rest more neutrally within the trigger guard. Don't, she whispers in her head. Don't.

He doesn't fire. Not yet anyway. She supposes that's the good news. The bad news is that he's got Don by the neck, a human shield, rifle jammed between the side straps of his tactical vest, so he must know something about how those work. She could still try for a head shot, but what are the odds his finger wouldn't squeeze the trigger? Even accidentally, the results would be the same. It's an awkward angle for the rifle, but what the heck. That bullet would rocket around inside Don's rib cage like a pinball in a machine, shattering bones and shredding organs. Okay, to heck with the odds - what she needs right now isn't the genius crew, it's Edgerton, with his cold-as-ice nerves and dead eye.

"Lower your gun and back away from him." Sometimes she wonders how these guys keep from laughing when they say stuff like that.

He doesn't laugh, but he shifts his grip to a less lethal one around Don's chest. She looks for an opening, but it's dark and her hands shaking more than ever. She knows what Don would want her to do, but she can't - she just can't. And speaking of odds, what are the odds he'd survive a bullet wound added to his current condition anyway?

With a mental apology, she resets her stance. This tells her one thing, anyway - that he probably doesn't know where _his_ buddies are either. Well, two things - the way he's tossing Don around like a rag doll, he is brutally strong.

As if to confirm, Don makes a choking sound, shifts against the tight hold around his chest.

She gasps aloud, grateful for proof that he is yet alive, then actually cries out when he chokes again, water pouring from his mouth. Her finger grabs again for the trigger, certain this will unbalance her adversary, but he only tightens his hold, rifle muzzle now jammed bruisingly under Don's jaw. He backs up slowly toward the shelter of the building behind him.

She moves to follow, stops when he rams the gun viciously at the underside of Don's chin. Burning with frustration, she watches as he is briefly lit by the soft glow from the window borders, then vanishes inside the shadowy doorway. She takes a step, testing to see if he is watching her.

Nothing. No bullet, no sound.

This would be a good time to peel out of here, go looking for help. She is climbing out of the pool even as she thinks it, scoping out the building in front of her.

Oh, what the hell. No point in messing with her reputation as a hotheaded screw up now. She ducks behind her first available cover, a nearby ticket booth, and frowns at the looming façade, trying to make out the words scrolling over the door. She blinks.

_Uh huh._

The Funhouse.

_Well, doesn't that just figure._

_TBC_


End file.
